


another story

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Episode: s22e04 Sightless in a Savage Land, Fluff, Getting Together, Gray-Asexuality, Insecurity, M/M, love and acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Barba stands in front of Carisi’s door, and he’s sure he looks perfectly at ease.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started watching this show because my sister loves it and assured me I would love Rafael Barba. She was 100% right. I was so glad to see him back!

Barba stands in front of Carisi’s door, and he’s sure he looks perfectly at ease. After all, he knows how to project a certain level of self-assuredness, doesn’t he? Knows how to look like he’s not here uninvited, knows how to look like he didn’t have to rummage through Liv’s files just to find the address. He doesn’t have to practice the smirk, not like he did back then, back when he was still young, back before he ever met Carisi and his mustache and his earnestness and his sickening disappointment.

_Shit or get off the pot_ , he thinks, but the thought reeks of his father’s influence, so he knocks. Knocks, and waits until Carisi answers the door, yawning, hair flat against one side of his head and a static puff on the other.

“Barba,” he says, drowsy and soft, then, “Rafael. Come in.” 

He looks younger like this, he looks older, he looks _exactly the same,_ and he leads Barba to his sofa and he doesn’t ask any questions. Doesn’t ask why he’s here. Doesn’t ask about Mickey Davis. Doesn’t ask how he knows the address. Doesn’t ask why he’s avoided his text messages for over two years.

“I have pink wine coolers, and I have water,” Carisi calls from the kitchen. “Tap water,” he adds, apologetically, as if he should have been better prepared for an unexpected midnight visitor.

“Wine coolers, counselor? Has your taste gotten even worse since I last saw you?”

“I have sisters, remember?” Carisi says, smiling. He presses a glass of water into Barba’s hand. “Yesterday I could’ve made you a badass apple martini, but last night was the anniversary of Bella’s first kiss or something. They cleaned me out.”

“And forever shall I mourn the missed opportunity,” Barba intones solemnly.

Carisi barks a laugh. He lounges back on the cushion next to Barba, idly running a hand through his hair.

“I wasn’t sure I’d find you alone here,” Barba says, a little too loudly. “Do young, pretty, _almost_ well-dressed ADAs have trouble finding dates these days?”

Once upon a time, a comment like this would have drawn a reaction. A babbled string of words, a comprehensive description of his last social outing, maybe even a light blush -- all to draw a circle around a single unspoken question -- _do you really think I’m pretty?_

Now, Carisi yawns. Arches an eyebrow. He looks unimpressed, but -- ah, but the blush is still there. Barba smirks.

“I’m not sure finding dates has ever been the problem,” Carisi says mildly.

Sometimes Barba looks at Carisi and thinks, _let me bite your face, let me see your fangs, let me see your claws. I don’t like to be touched, but you could hold my hand._

What he says now is, “You were pleased to see me. Before the trial.” 

“Obviously,” Carisi says, then adds, “Did you doubt I would be?”

“Liv thinks I was trying to mount my own defense,” he says, as if it fits the flow of the conversation.

Carisi hums. Plucks a tissue from the box next to the sofa and hands it to him. “You don’t need to defend yourself.”

“I don’t want this,” he says, tossing the tissue back. It flutters backward into his own lap like the world’s most depressing boomerang.

“You’re crying,” Carisi says.

“I’m not.”

“Fine, okay, you’re not crying. Your face is leaking salt water though, might wanna check that out.”

Barba coughs a derisive laugh.

“Where are you staying?” Carisi asks.

He’s staying at an expensive, upscale hotel in the city. He could be there right now, drinking top shelf whiskey and _not thinking_ about Carisi or Olivia or the trial or his motivations or the way things used to be.

He doesn’t answer, and Carisi looks him over critically. 

“Are you sleeping? Not enough? Too much?”

“Don’t _mother_ me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carisis says, unfazed. “All right, you’re staying here for the night. We both need to get some sleep, yeah? You can take the bed. And that’s a one time offer, okay? I don’t give up my bed for just anyone.”

Carisi has Barba up and herded into the bedroom before he can even begin to formulate a response, before he can list the hundreds of valid reasons he will absolutely _not_ being doing anything like spending the night here. Besides:

“You’re lying,” Barba spits. “You’d give up your bed to _anyone_ you thought might need it.”

But Carisi’s not listening. He’s digging through his dresser, and he hoots triumphantly when he pulls out an oversized Fordham University t-shirt. “You can wear this to sleep! You’d really be classin’ it up with your Harvard brain.”

It’s probably the only thing in there that _fits him_ , but he takes it, because maybe Carisi has worn it. Maybe he’s worn it to sleep, or to laze around the apartment on a rare day off. Maybe he’s worn it out, to run errands or to work on his parent’s house.

“You’re going to be okay,” Carisi says.

“Pending the ever-shifting definition of okay,” Barba says, still standing stupidly in the center of this tiny bedroom, still clutching Carisi’s shirt.

“ _Good night,_ Rafael,” Carisi says pointedly, smiling even as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, even as he closes the door.

Barba changes clothes. He switches off his cell, which he hasn’t done since… ever, and he lays down, down in Carisi’s bed, head on Carisi’s pillow which is damp from sweat or drool or wet hair from a shower. He covers himself with Carisi’s sheet, his comforter, and he realizes this is the most intimate position he’s been in since college, back when he was still young. Still idealistic.

This is the most comfortable he’s been since…

…

He sleeps past noon. He sleeps past noon, and he hides in Carisi’s bed for another hour after that, because he can hear Carisi moving around his apartment, can smell coffee and bacon. When he decides he can’t hide anymore, he barges from the room all at once, no matter that he’s still in his boxers and Carisi’s shirt, no matter than he showed up in the middle of the night with no warning, no matter than Carisi obviously took a day off to stay home and deal with him. No matter that he doesn’t know what to do next.

“Rafael,” Carisi says. He sounds warm, and a little surprised - perhaps he thought Barba snuck out in the night. He slides a mug of coffee across the counter and Barba closes his eyes because it’s hot and strong and he needed it so much.

“I’m sorry,” Barba says, as sincerely as he can, which means the words are edged in sarcasm and grief and anger.

“Don’t be. Seriously.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing the best you can,” Carisi says, matter-of-factly. “You always do what you think is right. It doesn’t make you an easy man to love, Rafael, but it’s admirable as hell. I wish you were kinder to yourself.”

Love. _Love_ , as if it’s just that easy, as if he’s _not ashamed_ , as if people say things like that out loud with no expectations, no reservations.

“You’re ridiculous,” Barba says. “A nightmare. I despise you.”

“You could stay. You could stay here, with me. I’d let you have the bed, as long as you like.”

“I only liked the bed because you use it,” Barba says, brusquely, like he’s not giving himself up. Like he’s not giving himself away without a backward glance. Like he’s not surrendering.

Carisi steps forward, takes Barba’s hand. For the first time, he looks unsure. “Is this okay?”

“ _Don’t stop_ ,” Barba says.

Carisi squeezes tighter. “I won’t. I promise. I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sonny meets Rafael’s mother by chance: he gets home from work just as Rafi is trying to shoo her from the apartment. Sonny doesn’t recognize her, doesn’t even notice her, because Rafael is home early and adorable in sweats and Sonny’s t-shirt.

“Ah, he only has eyes for you, doesn’t he?” The woman says, and Sonny whips his head around.

He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Dominick Carisi. Call me Sonny.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Lucia Barba. And you’re supposed to be good enough for my only son?”

Sonny freezes; both at the realization that this is Rafi’s mother and that she would ask that so quickly; that she’s seen right through him, that she can read him so easily, that she _knows_.

But Mrs. Barba winks. She takes his hand in both her own. “I’m teasing you,” she says, low, playfully, into his ear.

Sonny breathes. Tries to smile. “I do try,” he whispers back, matching her tone.

“That’s enough of that,” Rafael snaps. “ _Mami_ , I’ll walk you out.”

Sonny putters around the kitchen, and when Rafael come back, Sonny can feel eyes on him, dark, critical, and he knows he failed some kind of test. “I’d have waited to come up if I knew she was here,” he mutters.

Rafael brushes his hand over the back of Sonny’s neck. “She wants to do brunch on Sunday. What do you think?”

Sonny hums. “No big deal. I could use some extra time in the office. Paperwork’s pilin’ up.”

Rafael is quiet, and Sonny turns around, pulls him closer, noses into his neck. Breathes him in. _You smell so good_ , he doesn’t say, because he knows how creepy it sounds, how off-putting. Knows how stuff like that is the first step toward _too much_ , _too clingy_ , _too eager_.

Rafi hugs him even closer. He slides his hands up Sonny’s shirt, pressing into the small of his back, skin on skin, warmth on warmth. “Did she say something? Anything that bothered you?”

“What? No. She’s clearly awesome.”

“Clearly,” Rafi echoes absently, fingers clenching and unclenching against Sonny’s skin in an uneasy rhythm. Sonny imagines his own heart beating in time, out of his control, out of his chest. Out of his hands.

…

Rafael asks Sonny to meet him at Reggiano’s -- the fanciest restaurant Sonny actually enjoys. He’s looking forward to it; the choice of restaurant is a gesture, and one he appreciates. But Rafi arrives grim-faced and armored in his best black suit; he’s pulled tight in a way he hasn’t been since he turned up at Sonny’s door months ago. He sits opposite Sonny instead of right next to him, but when Sonny reaches across the table to take his hand, and he grips back, iron-strong.

Rafi keeps his eyes trained on Sonny even as they both order, and as soon as the waiter walks away, he sighs. “We need to talk,” he says, smoothly. Laser-focused.

_And here it is_. Sonny forces a casual smile. “Go ahead,” he says.

“You’re holding back. I think it’s time you told me why.”

Sonny blinks. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rafael relaxes. Shoots him a disarming grin. Releases Sonny’s hand, spreads both his own wide in what’s probably supposed to be an inviting gesture. “No?”

It’s all terribly familiar; Sonny has seen it before. “Gonna interrogate me, Counselor?”

“I assume this is about sex,” Rafael says, quick-fire serious but still wearing that unsettling grin.

“Sex,” Sonny repeats, trying to _think_ , trying to get ahead of this, to figure out what he did wrong, what he read wrong. “I didn’t think you…”

“I don’t,” Rafael says, then, “I don’t… I haven’t. _You_ do.”

“You haven’t,” Sonny says, skeptically, because they’ve talked exes, they’ve talked first times. He knows Rafi is no virgin.

“I haven’t ever enjoyed it,” Rafael says, then groans and holds up one hand. “That’s not what I meant. What I mean to say is that I’m still working through whether I might ever enjoy it. What I might enjoy. With you.”

Sonny tries to breathe. Tries to tamp down his anger, tries to speak slowly. Clearly. “If you think I would ever want you to _have sex with me_ when you don’t _want_ \--”

“I don’t like being touched,” Rafael interrupts. “I like it when you touch me.”

Sonny lets his head drop into his arms on the table top; he hides. He didn’t see this conversation coming at all, not for a second: he and Rafael kiss, Rafael never seems interested in taking it further, end of story. He hasn’t really thought about it; now, he sees that was a mistake. He sees how much Rafi has been thinking about it, worrying about it.

“ _You_ like to fuck,” Rafael says. “Perhaps I never will.” It sounds like an accusation.

Sonny peeks up; their uncomfortable-looking waiter is standing by with half a dozen small plates and Rafael is glaring straight ahead, straight through Sonny. “To go,” Sonny croaks at the waiter, who looks relieved.

Rafael doesn’t wait for the food; he tosses a pile of bills on the table and storms out. Sonny follows. Of course he does, and when he gets outside, he’s relieved to see that Rafael is waiting for him in a cab. He didn’t leave. _You didn’t leave_ , he thinks, and it gets him through the silent ride home. 

Rafael takes a deep breath when they step through their door; he presses forward, backs Sonny up against a wall. Speaks into his shoulder. “For so long. For so long, I’ve used sex to punish myself. I barely remember what it was like, before that. I know I wasn’t repulsed, not back then. That came later.”

“It doesn’t change anything. Not for me.”

“Doesn’t change anything,” Rafael repeats, bitter and sarcastic. “Here you’ve been waiting for me _so patiently_ , probably for _nothing_ , and you expect me to believe it doesn’t _change anything_?”

“I wasn’t _waiting_ ,” Sonny says, desperate. “I was-- I don’t know. _Enjoying_. I wasn’t waiting for anything! It never even occurred to me.” He’s telling the truth, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Rafi doesn’t believe him. He’ll _leave_ , Sonny can see it; this is so close to falling apart, and he didn’t even realize.

But Rafael is staring at him, breathing evenly, eyebrows pulled into a confused frown. He shakes his head. “If it’s not about sex, what is it?

“What is _what_?”

“You’re holding back.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You haven’t let me meet your sisters,” Rafael says.

“It’s too early for that,” Sonny says, too quick.

“You met my mother!”

“That was an accident.”

“You haven’t told anyone at the precinct. You didn’t invite me to your sister’s wedding. You won’t discuss moving. You looked sick when I suggested a vacation next year.”

“It’s perfectly normal to take things like that slow.”

“Maybe. If that’s what you really wanted.”

“Of course it is,” Sonny snaps.

Rafi looks triumphant at his raised voice, at his lapse in control. “You call me names. Sweetheart, a dozen times. Honey. Darling. _Love_.”

Sonny’s skin prickles all over, raw with humiliation. “I’m trying my best, Rafael. I don’t know what else you want from me. If you’re going to throw every little slip-up in my face--”

“Trying your best to do _what_? Keep your distance? If it’s not about sex--”

“Trying to keep you _here_!” Sonny shouts, then closes his eyes. Defeated. Mortified. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Sonny, sweetheart,” Rafael says, thick with sarcasm. “Darling. You asked me to move in with you before we even kissed. Before we even _discussed_ starting a relationship. _And I did_. What does that tell you?”

“You were having a rough time and I...” _Took advantage_.

Rafael heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe I was having a rough time because you weren’t paying attention to me.”

_I always pay attention to you_ , Sonny thinks, doesn’t say.

Rafael smirks like he heard it anyway. “You love me,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” Sonny says. “I know.”

“Say it. Say ‘I love you, sweetheart, and I want you to stick around long enough to to plan a vacation with me.’”

“Longer than _that_ ,” Sonny mutters, and watches, watches carefully. Watches Rafi light up, grin for real.

“Say you want to move into a bigger place with me. Say you want to have brunch with my mother.”

“I’ll make brunch,” Sonny says, grinning now. “But you said you liked this apartment.”

“I like this apartment because it contains _you_ ,” Rafi says, enunciating slowly and clearly, as if he’s talking to a small child. “If we can find a new apartment that contains both you _and_ room for a home office, all the better.”

“Yeah,” Sonny says. “Yeah, okay.”

“Why aren’t you _touching me_?” Rafael asks, grinning sharply, arms out.

Sonny laughs, stumbles forward. Half tackles Rafael into the sofa. Tucks his face into his neck. Breathes. “You smell good,” he says, then, “We still need to talk. Boundaries. Stuff. I should’ve asked.”

“I should have said something earlier. I meant to.” Rafael pauses, exhales slowly, into Sonny’s hair. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

“I’m here,” Sonny says. “I’m here. Not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart.”

“Promise,” demands Rafi, harsh. “You promised. Before.”

“I promise,” Sonny says, in gentle contrast. “I promise.”


End file.
